Post navigation

We had a rocky start to September. The Kenyan didn’t want to go back to school. I wish I could say it was because he had experienced the summer of his life. It was not. He didn’t want to go to school because, for the first time since he was 6 years old, his three best friends weren’t going to be there.

He shrugged his shoulders in reply to my asking, “how was your day?” after the first day of school.

I saw the same shrug in reply to that question after the second day of school.

And an identical shrug after day three.

Before he fell asleep that night, I stretched out on his bed next to him.

“Talk to me,” I said. This approach does not work with Waldorf because he is 13. But this is all the prodding 11 needs. At least for now.

“Since my friends are gone, there’s nothing for me to do during recess. No one for me to walk with or talk to. I’m just…alone.”

I pushed the mental image of my child sitting dejectedly against an overgrown oak immediately out of my head. This boy needed a pep talk, not a weepy parent.

“What is everybody else playing?” I asked.

“Mostly touch football. Football scares me,” he answered.

Football scares me too. But I can live with touch football at recess.

“If it scares you, you should try it! It sounds strange, but Dad and I believe that. Get out of your comfort zone. As long as it’s not drugs or something reckless. You know that, right? ”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know how to throw a football,” he whispered.

“I’ll teach you,” I answered. “Tomorrow morning. Before school.”

“But I don’t know the rules to football,” he continued.

“Ask your friends to explain the rules to you. It’s probably less complicated than it looks.”

“I don’t want to bother anybody,” he said.

Ah, the curse of the middle child runs deep in this boy. I know it intimately. I’ve lived it for 40 years.

“Kenyan, you’re going to have to ask for help. Some kids will be annoyed. They’ll treat you like there isn’t a place for you on that field. Don’t let that negative energy into your space. I bet you’ll find that most of your classmates will be excited that you want to play, and they will love sharing their knowledge with you. You may like playing touch football. And something magical happens when you’re a part of something bigger than yourself. It’s difficult to describe. You have to experience it to understand it.”

“What if I’m bad?” he worried.

“What if you’re good?” I countered.

***

So B&B LOVES football. He has been waiting a long time for one of our boys to express an interest so he can share his passion for it. When I told him that the Kenyan was interested in playing but needed some pointers, he leapt from the bed in excitement.

He began pacing, “I’ll need my football. My good one. Is it in your car or my car? Or is it in the shed? Or the front closet?”

“Slow down, Troy Aikan. You can make breakfast tomorrow. I’m going to teach him how to throw,” I said.

“Aikman. Troy Aikman,” he said with a disgusted look on his face. “I. Will. Teach. Him. How. To. Throw.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll damage him if you teach him. I’ve caught your passes. In the chest. They leave marks. They’re like bullets,” I argued.

“I. Will. Teach. Him.” He was scoffing at this point,”and I will not throw bullets.”

“Lobs. They have to be lobs. Otherwise, I’m teaching him,” I continued.

“Fine. Lobs. I. Will. Teach. Him. How. To. Throw.”

“OK, then.” I turned off the light. He went downstairs in search of his good football.

After breakfast the next morning…a breakfast that I made microwaved…the Kenyan and B&B went into the backyard. B&B taught him how to throw a spiral and, as promised, tossed lob after lob to our son.

When I picked the kids up from school that afternoon, I brought warm soft pretzels to hold them over until dinner. The Kenyan’s pretzel grew cold. He was too busy playing touch football to eat it. He was catching passes and running for touchdowns. He turned out to be one of the fastest on the field. He was surrounded by a sea of animated faces, encouraging him every step of the way. There was a spot for him on that field, and he had claimed it.

My boy was shining.

A week later, I took inventory of my people as I stood on that playground. The Kenyan was engaged in a game of touch football with his new group of friends. The Interrogator sat on top of the monkey bars, encouraging the Verb to join him. It was 4:15, so we had a few more minutes before Waldorf finished soccer practice. Just enough time to check my email.

And I opened it up to find this…

WHAT?!?!?

Do I want to run the Boston Marathon?!?

Before I had kids, I knew exactly how I intended to parent. I wouldn’t raise my voice because my kids would be good listeners. I would not succumb to the pressure of purchasing the dreaded electronic devices. My children and I would be too engaged in stimulating conversation for those shenanigans. It would be a team effort–with willing participants–to keep the house clean. Particular pride would be taken in keeping the toilets immaculate. Dinner would be love at first bite no matter what I cooked. They would request I cook meatloaf once, sometimes twice, a week. Eager to connect with me, my children would, unprovoked, tell me every single thing going on in their lives. I would have plenty of space on my bookshelf. No need for parenting books when you go in with an airtight plan like mine.

Then I had kids. Four of them. All boys. The reality of having children changed all of my preconceived notions about what it meant to be a parent. And everything I thought I had known went down the toilet. Unfortunately, it was the only thing down the toilet. Because, with boys, the pee goes around the toilet. And under it. And on the bathroom walls.

What is that?

I’ve had similar intentions about running. Specifically, I’ve always said “I would never run the Boston Marathon without qualifying.”

And then I received an email inviting me to run it as a member of Team Stonyfield, the official yogurt sponsor of the 2015 Boston Marathon. (YoBaby YoBaby Yo! No, seriously, Stonyfield’s YoBaby was the first yogurt that I fed to each of my babies!) Equally amazing, I’ll be asked to write about my journey. The reality of being offered that opportunity changed all of my preconceived notions about not having earned a qualifying time in order to experience it.

The Kenyan ran over to me just as I read the email.

“You look pale, Mom,” he noted.

“Buddy, you won’t believe this. I have a chance to run the Boston Marathon.”

“That’s cool!” he smiled.

“It’s the coolest. But I’m scared,” I confessed.

He didn’t miss a beat, “If you’re scared, you should do it!”

“I’ve never run a marathon before. I don’t know what happens beyond 13.1 miles. Boston is the marathoner’s marathon. It’s for the best of the best. People will say I don’t belong there. Runners will say that.”

He put his hands on my shoulders, “Mom, you’re going to have to ask for help. So what if people are mad? Don’t let that negative energy into your space. I bet you’ll find that most people are rooting for you and want to share their knowledge to help you do your best.”

“But what if I can’t be the Mom you guys need me to be because I’m too tired from my training?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Honey, what if I’m bad?” I whispered.

“Mom,” his eyes twinkled as he smiled at me, “what if you’re good?”

***

My friends at Another Mother Runner and the fine folks at Stonyfield Organic have given me the opportunity of a lifetime. Nine lucky women and I will be running the 2015 Boston Marathon as Team Stonyfield.

I’m thrilled.

And I’m scared.

I’m going to need some help along the way.

But I believe there is a place for me in that sea of inspiring runners.

I hope I am able to shine. Just like my boy.

***

I’m stoked that my first post is live today at Another Mother Runner! I will be chronicling my training journey on their website from December-April. My blog will remain a place for amusing and/or poignant stories that pretty much always contain curse words.

Just like I stumbled over the words “fiance” and “husband” when I first spoke them, there is something surreal about hearing myself admit to having a teenage son.

He certainly looks the part.

When he sleeps, he takes up the entire bed. He throws his long, toned arms overhead in repose. Even on the coldest nights, the covers are cast off, and he dons the obligatory teenage sleepwear–gym shorts and an oversized t shirt.

When did he last wear pajamas? A year ago? Two years?

There are no pajamas in the land of 13.

When he stands, 13 is tall enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes, indigo like his Father’s. They share the same broad shoulders and enviably long legs. I know those legs by heart. I see them every day as 13 maintains his three-stride-ahead-of-me distance. He carries himself with just as much confidence as his Father and a touch more humility.

Is it wrong to hope that’s my doing?

13 has an upper lip in need of its first shave.

He ambles around in a men’s size 11 shoe.

He grunts more frequently than he speaks.

When he does talk, his voice is so deep that–when I hear it from a room away–I wonder which of my children let the strange man into the house.

***

I am negotiating with 13 as I write this. He is painfully private, so I feel it’s only right to ask his permission before writing about him. His reply? “You may write about me. But it will cost you.” He lobbies for a YouTube account. I have something less permanent in mind. Like a chocolate milkshake.

Negotiations remain at a standstill.

***

I am puzzled by 13 as I write this. He would eat buffalo chicken sandwiches every day of the week if I let him. And chase it with a jar of olives. I find wrappers in his pockets from packs of Mentos. Mentos. Are they back? Were they ever really in?

13 fills every blank space in his first grade brother’s My Book About Me with the word “poop.” All 63 pages.

13 ducks when I reach out to fix his hair. He allows me to kiss him goodbye and goodnight, but he rolls his eyes almost every time I do it.

13 removes the tank lid from the toilet, assesses why it won’t flush, and remedies the problem in under a minute. Yet he wants me to spread cream cheese on his bagel.

13 prefers to stay home and watch Jimmy Fallon clips rather than accompany his buddies to a middle school dance. “Why would I ever want to go there?” he asks.

“I know what that means,” I whisper my husband. “It’s The Girls. He isn’t ready to be around The Girls yet.”

13’s only wants are Doritos, video games, YouTube videos, and sleep.

Rinse (really well. And, I beg you, rinse again) and repeat.

I know this boy.

Except maybe I don’t. Because one day, he rolls in and announces he tried out for a part in the school play. And he’s made it. He doesn’t remember which part he got, but it’s a big one.

The one thing he is specific about?

“The Girls. There are lots of them,” he smiles and raises his eyebrows as he relays this.

Wait, he’s not smiling.

He’s beaming.

So maybe he is ready…it just needs to be on his terms.

***

I am frustrated with 13 as I write this. When I reach under his bed in search of a missing Nike Elite sock, my hand brushes his laptop. His school laptop. Which he should have with him right now. Because he is at school. I am frustrated not because he has forgotten it. In a house with five males, things get forgotten. I am frustrated that his laptop is in his room when we have a clear no-electronics-in-the-bedroom rule. A rule he continues to break.

I don’t find the overpriced sock. Instead I find the security blanket that was his comfort and constant companion through the first years of his young life. To anyone outside our immediate family, it looks like a rag collecting dust. For me, it’s like bumping into a dear old friend. It is his Velveteen Rabbit, the most treasured item from his childhood.

But he is 13.

Has it been abandoned? Outgrown and forgotten like Jessie in Toy Story? A movie we watched together a decade ago while he sucked his thumb, wrapped in that very blanket and snuggled on my lap.

Or does he leave it under his bed on purpose? Does it comfort him at the end of each day to know that it still exists and is literally within his grasp?

I know better than to ask him. His answer would come in the form of Sarcasm. 13 speaks it every hour of every day. Except for the thirty minutes before he goes to bed. Which coincide with the thirty minutes I’m most mentally and physically drained. He is quieter than ever–if you don’t count the grunting–so when he speaks, I try to listen. It’s then that he allows the mask to slip, and I glimpse the young man who wants to do right. By himself, by his parents, by his brothers, by his teachers, by his friends.

We speak in hushed tones in darkness, save for the faint glow of a street light that casts a single beam through his bedroom window. Comforted by the shadows, he breaks down the difference between cool and uncool. Listening to him, it occurs to me that cool is not just an adjective. It’s a verb, it’s a noun, it’s an adverb. It’s the object of every 13 year old preposition. The gap between his definition of cool and mine would take several oceans to fill. It’s the difference between having experienced life and having one’s entire life still ahead of him.

He explains why he doesn’t text an old friend as much and that it doesn’t bother him.

Confides that one girl is not as friendly in his eyes as another, but he is in no hurry to speak to either of them.

I answer questions if he asks, and rail against the voice in my head that aches to turn every moment into a teaching moment. It is the most well-intentioned part of me. It’s also the part that shuts him down most quickly.

I walk away from those insightful nights with a better understanding of where 13 believes he resides in this world. He wants to fit in, but is not uncomfortable standing out.

It’s not a bad place to be.

***

I am captivated by 13 as I write this. He is our oldest child. His firsts are our firsts. Ours is a complicated dynamic because 13 has three younger brothers. It’s noisy. It’s smelly. It’s snacks all the time. There is bleeding. We have stitches. My husband and I have little confidence in our ability to anticipate what 13 needs because this is the first time we’ve parented 13.

Hello, how do you do?

So much of our interacting is my asking him not to do some things…

“Please don’t tease your brothers,”

“Please don’t curse at the dinner table,”

“Please don’t cook anything while you’re babysitting,”

…while begging him to do others…

“Please change your socks. Every. Day.”

“Please wait to tell me this story when we are not around little ears.”

“Remove your headphones when I’m speaking to you. What did I say? I SAID REMOVE YOUR HEADPHONES WHEN I’M SPEAKING TO YOU!”

13 enjoys his math teacher so much that he agrees to spend his Sunday afternoon volunteering at a school open house simply to spend more time with him.

For all of his grunting, 13 grows animated when the subject of Santa Claus arises. This is his fourth Christmas in the know, but you’d never guess by listening to him regale his younger brothers with stories of that time he heard reindeer on the roof. He’s no readier for the magic to end than we are. We are bonded in our enthusiasm to keep the littles believing.

When we go out in public and I have the wherewithal to step back and let him take the lead, I am able to appreciate the young man he is becoming.

I find that I like him.

He is clever. Well spoken. Smart. He engages comfortably with adults. He enjoys people and wants to put them at ease. He is an old soul. He reminds me of the things I love most about my Dad.

Yes, I miss when his hand was little, and it fit so perfectly in mine. I miss the way he climbed onto my lap. I miss hugs initiated by his little arms. I miss singing him a lullaby every night.

But 13 is good stuff.

It is watching TheWalking Dead with him, but knowing, no matter how much he begs, he is way too young for Homeland.

It’s skimming the last hundred pages of Stephen King’s 11/22/63 because I can’t wait to give it to him to read next.

It’s intentionally sitting next to him on a haunted hayride so that I can seek refuge behind his broad shoulders.

It’s talking more candidly about health and human sexuality because I want him to be informed, be safe, be respectful, be happy. I want him to feel normal.

It’s knowing that he is going to make mistakes–that he needs to make mistakes–and hoping they aren’t the kind of mistakes from which he can’t recover.

***

He remains three strides ahead of me on the sidewalk.

I’m no longer the central character I was in his story a mere decade ago.

13 feels compelled to walk his own path. His need to brave it on his own transcends my desire to be alongside him every step of the way.

Where I fit into his life is not his concern.

That I am here is all he needs to know.

I will not look to close the gap between us.

For now, I’ll stay out of sight, out of mind–yet still within arm’s reach at the end of the day.

Just like his beloved old blanket.

It’s not a bad place to be in this surreal world of mine.

Now that I have a teenage son.

***

This is the third installment of This Is Adolescence. It is a true thrill to be a voice in this writing series. Thanks to Lindsey Mead and Allison Tate for having me. Lindsey kicked off our series with a beautiful look at age 11. Allison followed with insight about 12 that so paralleled my experience with 12 that if I didn’t know she lived in Florida, I’d believe she were my very own peeping tom right here in Philadelphia. I’m looking forward to reading ages 14 through 18, written by Catherine Newman, Jessica Lahey, Marcelle Soviero, Shannon Duffy, and Lisa Heffernan.

I had visions of Baby Bjorns, well balanced meals, family game nights, and children who sought my advice on everything. Some of those children were supposed to be female.

I got my Baby Bjorn. So dreams do come true.

But it was strapped to an aching back around an unfortunate pair of sizable love handles. Attached to it was a wailing child who needed to be nursed. A wailing child who repeatedly reached his clammy fingers into the peanut butter sandwich I was making for his older brother. And into the jelly sandwich I was making for his other brother…the one who wouldn’t eat peanut butter. And into the yogurt I had opened for his other brother…the one who wouldn’t eat peanut butter or jelly.

Well balanced meals consist of my leaning over the sink to eat slightly more chicken than my Weight Watchers points allow in the span of 45 seconds. I slam it down with my eyes on the boys, who still play outside. Because I know if I wait for them–to come inside, wash their hands, argue over who gets the Iron Man cup, and sit down–I will be ANGRY HUNGRY and singlehandedly ruin dinner. Dinner for them looks like white pasta with butter and salt in front of two kids. Cereal in front of a third kid. Three servings of rice pilaf and a small portion of chicken for a fourth son who refuses seconds of the protein because then he might not have enough room in his stomach to finish the entire family size bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos while the rest of us attempt to watch The Voice. During which I increase the volume repeatedly over his crunching until I reach the point when I finally bark, “you may only eat the Doritos during commercial breaks, or so help me Jesus I’ll shove the entire contents of the bag down the garbage disposal!” Because, for the love of Gooooooooooooddddddddd, I just want to hear what Pharrell has to say, but I cannot hear a mother fucking thing over my child’s incessant. fucking. Dorito. crunching.

But family game nights are fun, right?

Wrong.

I married a man who wins every game. Every time. Scrabble. Boggle. Rummy. Pictionary. Trivial Pursuit. Payday. Yahtzee. Parcheesi. Trouble in the Bubble. You name it…he wins it. Here is an experiment in human torture I’ve designed for you. Have a sunny disposition and a willingness to play any game that your spouse suggests. Try your best, yet have your ass repeatedly handed to you. Subject your kids to the same torture. Lose. Over and over and over again. All of you. Year in and year out. Not because you want to…because he is better than all of you at everything in the world. Do this for the next 20 years. Know that the average life expectancy for a man is approximately 75 years, but that your spouse’s male relatives seem to live a little longer. So, see if you can maintain that sunny disposition and willingness to play lose every board and card game for an additional 40 years, during which time your eyes, ears, and bowels are failing. After losing, try to compartmentalize your absolute hatred for every game ever invented in the history of the universe frustration and be really flattered, excited, and downright turned on when he wants to celebrate his winning streak by having sex with you.

Struggling with that? Yeah. Me too.

Back to the kids who, in my parenting fantasy, seek out my advice on everything. I yearn for my children to come to me with their problems, lay them out over the immaculate kitchen counter, and remain my captive, willing audience as I solve them with the perfect combination of experience, reason, and wit. All over a steaming plate of homemade brownies that I’ve coincidentally just plucked from the oven.

To be fair, my boys really do seek my advice on everything. And by everything I mean everything pertaining to the laundry or dinner. “Is my new shirt clean? Do you know what we’re having for dinner? I said I am wearing short pants…not LONG! You’re not going to make me eat that, are you? Did you lay out my clothes? Why do we have to eat this meatloaf when it’s so…so….so…meatloafy? You bought me these shorts, and they bother my skin! If I eat this, I know I will throw up. That was his shirt last week, why is it my shirt this week? I don’t care if it hurts when I poop, I said I want another yogurt!”

I had ideas about what it meant to be a parent before I had children.

Being someone’s parent in real life…it’s messy.

It’s both full of dialogue and simultaneously empty of conversation.

It’s hurting someone’s feelings and doing my best to win him back before the tears have even rolled down his cheeks far enough to reach his tiny jawline.

It’s forcing two brothers to remain in a room together until it’s worked out and in the same sentence explaining that I will be in the kitchen because I need a physical break from both of them.

It’s listening to my husband reprimand our child, disagreeing with what he is saying with every fiber of my motherly being, but biting my tongue so that I don’t contradict him in front of the kids.

It’s so much emotional work and so little positive feedback.

It’s one unwelcome, unexpected fiasco after another.

A few months ago, I made an announcement to B&B. “I’ve made a decision. I want to stop railing against the unexpected. Instead I want to try to embrace it.”

To emphasize my point, and maybe to remind myself that I’d had this epiphany, I hung a picture over our dining room table. It’s a picture my husband shot of an area in Philadelphia that is laden with graffiti. It’s one of my favorite pictures. There’s so much mess, and so much chaos. But, there’s beauty amid the chaos.

This says “bon appetit”, don’t you think?

“Wow,” he remarked. “That’s a bold one. I don’t think most people would hang it in their dining room.”

“That’s why I like it,” I agreed. “Because fuck most people. It’s busy, and messy. And unexpected. Like us.”

The picture had been hanging in the dining room for a few days when the Verb decided to stand on a chair and inspect it more closely.

“Did Dad take this picture?” he asked.

“Mm hmm,” I answered.

“It’s kinda dirty, but I like it. Her lips are giant. And there are lots of like…words. Hey, I can even read one. It says ‘smile’ on this girl’s face! Mom, I can read it!”

I turned away from the dishes I was washing and gave him a smile of my own.

I knew this was the right picture to hang in that spot. Even my youngest son is finding the calm in the chaos and the beauty in the unexpected.

It was one of those parenting moments when I felt like I had nailed it.

Eureka!

I turned back to the dishes as the Verb asked me, “Mom, who is Dick?”

“Um, I don’t think I know anyone named Dick.”

“This girl in Dad’s picture knows Dick. It says so right on her nose! ‘She…suck…dick.'”

And because, overwhelmingly, the response to an article I wrote for WhatToExpect.com was “Read Masterminds and Wingman by Rosalind Wiseman,” I bought the book and have been reading it.

I think I’m not supposed to ask my teenage son direct questions. At least not about school the minute he gets into the car. On that I’m fairly clear.

I’m not sure if the same applies when I’m picking him up from a social event.

Which recently happened.

And I haven’t read all of Masterminds and Wingmen, so proceed with one eye opened. And keep the other eye on your delicious toddler who is right now pulling on your pant leg and sucking on zwieback while you try to read. Know that one day, this too will be your life.

***

“So, your brother had a really fun time at his party. He told me he played violent video games.” I start with this nugget as soon as the host closes the door behind us.

See what I did there? I am talking to him, but not about him. And I’m speaking his language. The language of video games. Also, I don’t know if this is right or wrong. But we’re in it together now, so just roll with me.

“Violent video games? Hmm. I’ll have to get to the bottom of that,” he replies.

“It’s disturbing to me, but he seemed excited about it.” Because duh. Violent video games are fucking disturbing.

We cross the quiet street side by side and he slides into the passenger seat of my car. At 5’8”, Waldorf is three inches taller than I am. Unless we drive somewhere as a family, he has permanently staked his claim to shotgun until he graduates to the driver’s seat.

Am I supposed to ask him now if he had fun? Or am I not supposed to ask him? Is that question off limits altogether? Is it school I’m not supposed to ask him about or is it everything?

Wait, am I even allowed to talk?

I haven’t read that far in the book yet.

You see, I want to read the entire book, but FOUR KIDS.

He breaks the silence with, “Speaking of violence, I almost got violent.”

Oh, great. More violence. “Really? In a video game?”

“No. At the party,” he says matter-of-factly.

Well, now I’m going to make some extra turns and go home the long way. Because what the hell is this?

“Oh, dear.” Oof, that’s not the right thing to say. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened. One of my friends was acting…out of control,” he is casual, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice he is flexing and unflexing his fingers as he speaks.

“Define ‘out of control’,” I say in an award winning attempt to keep the alarm out of my voice. Despite the fact that my throat is closing.

“Like a dog without a leash,” he replies without hesitation.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

Because Wow

A. We don’t have a dog.

B.That’s quite a metaphor for this particular boy.

“Exactly,” he says as though he has illustrated his point clearly. Game Over, Mom. Discussion Closed, lady.

“Well, some dogs are OK without leashes. Like Josephine who walks across the school playground? But other dogs always need to be on a leash,” I point out.

I can’t see him in the dark, but I don’t need to to know that he is rolling his eyes as he turns to address my profile, “Josephine, if you remember correctly, attacked another dog on the playground last year. You saw it with your own eyes. Which proves my point.”

“What point is that?” I ask.

“Pffffft.”

“Waldorf? Which point?”

“My. Point. That all dogs need leashes.” Again, duh.

I am so confused. Was there a dog at the party? Two dogs? Was his friend acting like a dog towards the girls? Pantomiming a four legged animal? Or acting like a metaphorical dog in a sexual manner?

“So, what does that mean in human terms? Being a dog without a leash?” I ask.

“You know what it means,” he fires back.

“Does it mean he was disrespectful? Was he inappropriate? Was he destructive in someone else’s home?”

“I don’t have time for specifics. You know what it means,” he snaps.

“I do?”

I do??

“Yes.”

Fuck!

WWRWD

What Would Rosalind Wiseman Do?

“What do you think I think it means?” I ask. It sounds like something a psychiatrist might say. I don’t know whether that’s a stroke of genius or the kiss of death. But it’s all I have.

“Oh, it means what you think it means,” he says.

What??

“What do you think it means?” Again with the shrink speak.

“What I think is different from what you think. But in this case, we’re both right,” he shrugs.

“We are?”

We are????

“Yes,” he crosses his arms and looks out the window.

I’m so confused. I’m so confused! Should I call the parents who just hosted my son and see if their dog is OK? Did someone let their dog out without a leash?

He interrupts my frantic thoughts, “Listen, when someone is out of control, there is only one thing that can happen, and you know what it is.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me a hint? Because I feel really tired in my brain and I don’t know the one thing that can happen when someone is out of control.” Help me. For the love of god, help me.

“All you need to know is I handled it,” he replies.

“You handled it?” I ask.

“That’s what I said.”

“Did you handle it properly?” I ask.

“I know how to handle these things. I handle them all the time. It falls on me. And so…I do it.”

Don’t worry, Ma. I handled it.

Now the moment I publish this, I’m going to get a barrage of texts from my Mom friends. “Spill it. Who is the dog without a leash? You’d tell me if it were my son, right?”

Who it was and what happened are inconsequential.

There is a much bigger issue here.

CAN ANYONE DECODE THE FUCKING CONVERSATION I HAD WITH MY 13 YEAR OLD SON???

We had a serious conversation. It appeared he felt that he needed to get it off his chest. And I love that he knew he could tell me.

But I am so very confused.

***

Later that night, after we send Waldorf to bed, B&B catches me digging through the bottom of a Lucky Charms cereal box.

“You don’t eat that cereal,” he says.

“I’m not eating the cereal. I’m looking for the secret decoder ring at the bottom.”

I relay the exchange I had in the car to my husband.

He laughs and remarks, “Good for him. Handling it.”

OMFG. Not him too.

“You’re not helping me. What does that mean?” I ask.

He shrugs, “I don’t know. Did he duct tape the dude to a chair or something? Pull him aside and tell him he was acting like a dick?”

I wave my hands frantically in front of me, “I don’t know! I need you to get to the bottom of it. I am so confused. He sounded like Luca fucking Brasi in the passenger seat of my car! But I’m not Don Corleone. I’M KAY!”

He smiles, “He’s figuring it out. Maybe that’s all you need to know. He had a conflict and he feels like he resolved it on his own. It’s OK for you to be Kay. Plus Luca Brasi is the enforcer. Which is bad-ass.”

The good news is, I heard Rosalind Wiseman speak at my kids’ school last night. And she was fantastic! I’m going to see if I can get a hold of her email address. Then I’ll ask her to do me a solid and clear this mess up.

Do you remember that day when we went on the rides this summer? It was that blazing hot day in July. Ours was a minivan brigade with your cousins trailing behind us. We drove from Sea Isle to Ocean City and parked in the first open spot that we found. We made the trek to the boardwalk to get seven kids out of your grandparent’s house before the afternoon rain started. But the rain never came, so we shouted over the carnival music “just buy more tickets!” So we did. We bought and we rode. The music played and we yelled. And there were copious amounts of cotton candy. Never ending bags. Your lips were lined blue and pink with sweet crystals that never quite made it into your mouths.

Remember when I kicked off my flip flops and followed you to that ride…the swings suspended from chains that go around and around in circles? I was so excited! Excited to go on the swings, but even more excited to be the Mom…your Mom…who goes on the swings with her kids. It matters to me, you guys. What you think about me. Yes, I know you love me. But Dad is like fun on crack. Exponential fun. Funfetti. And I like to do fun things with you too. And there’s a part of me that hopes that you think “I love that we have a Mom who does fun things with us.” But you probably just think, “I told her blue cotton candy. Why did she just hand me pink?”

So I ran with you. With the sun on my face, cotton candy dissolving on my tongue, sweat trailing down my back, carnival music playing in my ears, we ran toward the swings together. To the seats that were lined up along the outside because those are the ones that swing the highest. We buckled ourselves in, and I smiled when I realized that my bare feet didn’t even touch the ground. “Ha,” I thought, “will you look at me? Just like one of the kids.”

And then the ride started.

And my smile disappeared.

I white knuckled the chains of that swing as we flew higher and higher and circled around faster and faster.

I opened my eyes just long enough to notice you boys throwing your heads back with joy. And just long enough to realize that opening my eyes didn’t help.

“I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK,” back to the mantra and the eye closing.

I willed myself to swallow down the rising bile and focus instead on your laughter.

“Hi, Mom! Don’t throw up!”

That was you, Verb. You weren’t tall enough to go on the swings, so you stayed with your Aunt and yelled at me with your raspy little voice every time I passed over your head, “Hi, Mom! Don’t throw up!”

Carnival music.

“I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“Hi, Mom! Don’t throw up!”

Carnival music.

“I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“Hi, Mom! Don’t throw up!”

I wanted so badly to love every minute of it. But, the reality was I couldn’t wait for it to fucking end.

Which is a perfect metaphor for our summer.

You guys, I wanted so badly to love every minute of it.

But the reality was…I couldn’t wait for it to fucking end.

I want to be good at summer. And I am. In June. And June does too count as a month because you finished school on June 3rd, Waldorf, and the rest of you finished on June 6th. And it was a half fucking day. So, come on. June was a full month of vacation in this house. And I was like funfetti for a change. I was yes to everything. Warm donuts for breakfast, water ice for lunch, cousins non stop, afternoons spent on the beach, buffalo wings for dinner, bedtimes be damned. So much yes. All of it yes.

I care. That we don’t fill your summer so completely that you head into a new school year under a cloud of exhaustion. So ours are unstructured summers. They are a throwback to a simpler time. It’s decompression at its finest. It allows you the time to recharge your batteries and be ready to do this school thing all over again come September. It is my gift to you, boys. It allows you the opportunity to be brothers. I need you to have time to be brothers. I need it for you. To cultivate that bond. To build that house on a strong foundation. And I need it for me. To watch you pair off and to listen to your conversations when you don’t realize I’m in the next room. Yelling at one brother, then defending him in the next breath. Laughing so uncontrollably that I sidestep the creakiest stairs so I can tiptoe up to your room to bear quiet witness to so much happiness.

It was a hard summer for me, you guys. Throwback summers feel like a fantastic idea during the mayhem that is May, but by mid-July the reality hits me like a gigantic WTF. There are weeks at a time that my gift to you feels like a punishment for me. Just like on that ride, I couldn’t find my footing at all this summer. I expect you guys to go through a million periods of WTF. So much of what lies ahead of you will be a struggle to find your footing. When it happens to me…and I feel like I should have a fairly good handle on this parenting thing by now…it freaks me out.

Ah, but my Facebook page was full of excitement, wasn’t it? We were making memories. Like a boss. We were making memories so hard I was hash-tagging it. #makingmemories

“If you feel something wet on your shoulder, it’s just my armpit. I sweat. A lot. It’s nice to meet you both, by the way!”

“I’m so glad we decided to go to breakfast instead of going for a run. No part of my ass is glad, but the rest of me is glad.”

“Look at the camera now or I will take your ice cream and make you watch me while I eat it.”

“Jesus fucking Christmas. How many idiots does it take to make the number 18? Look like you mean it, guys!”

“No, we’re not going to keep the beads out all summer long. Because Mommy hates crafts, that’s why.”

“Waldorf, stop touching your brother and get out of the picture. GET OUT OF THE PICTURE! You’re ruining it, and you’re ruining my day. You better not ruin this entire fucking summer or so help me Jesus I will ship you away next summer.”

“Holy Moses. The only thing missing is a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. What’s that? I said the boys are so lucky they have a Dad who documents their memories like this!”

” I should be running instead of eating these. Oh well.We got cheese, right? I’m not eating these unless they’re smothered in cheese.”

“Why would you ever choose a snow cone? They are the dumbest desserts ever. Flavorless. Now, smile, and pretend you made a good choice. Pretend you’re eating a chipwich.”

“For the last time, STOP STRANGLING YOUR BROTHER! Jesus CHRIST! Now smile so I can send a picture to Dad to show him how nicely you’re playing.”

“What the hell were you doing climbing on my car? Hang on. Just hold it up there while I take a picture. My GOD, your feet are dirty. Jesus fucking Christ with you boys. Disgusting creatures.”

“Just so we’re clear, I will beat your ass if you try to run your brother over with that lawnmower. You hear me, right?”

“For the love of god, stop telling everyone you just puked! We cleaned it up without anybody noticing, can’t it be our little secret?”

“Oh, mother fucker. Well, 80% of them are having fun.”

“If you spin your brother too fast on that ride, I will beat you! BEAT YOU! Aw, look how sweet you two are.”

“Let’s play a game. Here are the rules. I’m going to close my eyes. And you’re going to move your body away from me and stop asking me for snacks. 1-2-3-Go!”

“This Neil Diamond cover band would be so much more enjoyable if we had left these asshole kids at home. I fucking hate them right now. Hand me a beer, will you? Let’s take a selfie and pretend we’re having fun.”

“Do you want to wait in this line for ice cream or do you want me to drag you home and put you to bed right now? Stop being so annoying. Mommy loves you.”

“I guess you didn’t hear Mommy telling you not to run at the pool. This is what happens when you don’t listen to Mommy. Be careful where you put your penis. Trust me on that one too.”

“Come on, Ma, get in! What is that smell? It smells just like earthworms after a rainstorm. Gross! Shit, where are the kids? Can you take this snake off of us so we can find our kids? Hurry before the let the ferret out!”

“Can you boys stop acting like jackasses for one minute? Just ONE MINUTE??? JESUS! Now look at the camera and smile if you want electronics ever again.”

“Hey, Verb, if you don’t listen to me, I’m going to dig a hole, put you in it, and bury you. Then I’m going to leave you there. How does that sound? Now look at me and smile for this picture.”

“Goddammit, Waldorf, do you have any sense of urgency in any part of your existence? There is an entire beach full of people waiting behind us! Fucking move! So help me, if you don’t smile, I will save every penny I have to send you to sleep away camp all summer next year. Hey, there it is! The Stanley Cup! We’re making memories this summer, guys, aren’t we?!”

“Hey, guys, could you at least try to muster a little enthusiasm? Woohoo! New school stadium! Can you play the part please? No? Thanks for nothing. Assholes.”

“Wait, why would you put them in the fountain? Why not behind the fountain? You thought it would look cooler? Let me ask you something…how many people do you think took a piss in that fountain? And now our kids are standing in how many people’s piss? The city of brotherly love. Our kids are standing in a fountain. Of piss.”

“Lie down. Right here. Because I asked you to lie down. I want to take a picture of you boys lying down. No, don’t stand over there. Because it’s stupid. I want you to lie down. Why do you have to make this difficult? Fine. I’ll take the picture, but it’s going to look fucking stupid with you standing off to the side. Annoying child. Swine.”

I’m a person. Just one person. A human being who screws up like every other human being.

And I feel like I screwed up this summer. And I’m sorry. My balance was completely off. I know I can do better.

There’s so much life in this house. There’s evidence in every corner of it. The shoes, the Legos, the home improvement projects, the artwork, the photography equipment, the books, the bodies, the voices. Ours is a full life. It’s a chaotic one. And as I sit and write in a house that’s still full but finally quiet, I am reminded it’s a finite one as well. There’s a beginning and an end. And you are not mine. You’re here on loan for a short period. Granted, it feels especially long every June, July, and August. But I’m reminded every time I see a Mom with a baby how very quickly the years go by. When I have to reach up to hug you, Waldorf. When you smile wide enough that your braces show, Kenyan. Every time you mutter, “whatever,” Interrogator. And the fact that I no longer have to wear you like an accessory, Verb.

You’re on loan to me for a short time.

Next summer, if you still want me to, I will kick off my flip flops and run after you. With the sun on my face, the sweat trailing down my back, and the music in my ears, I will buckle myself into a swing…the one next to the swing that goes the highest. I will smile when I realize, again, that my bare feet don’t touch the ground.

And with some luck, I won’t have to remind myself that I’m OK.

Maybe one of you will reach out and hold my hand. And that will make all the difference.

It happens once a year. And usually only for a day. The past collides with the present as I reunite with the people who know the earliest chapters of my story best. They know it because it’s their story too. We experienced it side by side. They are my childhood people.

My very first friends.

We’ll go for months and months without speaking, but our friendships are like the lyrics to an old favorite song. We think we’ve long forgotten them, yet we find ourselves harmonizing in no time. They lie just beneath our embrace, which we hold a few seconds longer to honor the history that bonds us. The 364 days that have passed since our last visit are a mere blink. The decades fall away, and we are 10 years young again.

Hello, old friends.

She is 5 and I am 4. We are in ballet class, and the teacher scolds me for doing a curtsy instead of a plié. I blink back tears. She catches my eye and sticks out her tongue behind the teacher’s back. A show of solidarity. It’s just enough to make me smile instead of cry.

We catch up in pieces throughout the day. In a staccato-like conversation over the heads of our squealing children as we heave them above wave after wave until our shoulders are sore and our wrists ache. Side by side in chairs as the youngest ones demand we blow on freshly baked birthday cakes made of sand. In unseasonably cold waist-deep ocean water as we yell over the surf to our oldest kids, “Not so deep!”

I am 5 and she is 6, and every time I arrive at her door she greets me with her beloved clogs. She hands them over and lets me walk around in them–even though they are two sizes too big– because she knows how desperately I want a pair…and that my mom won’t allow me to have them.

We talk books, diagnoses, and relationships. The concern is genuine as we speak in hushed tones of parents who are suddenly old, others who have cancer, and those we worry continue to drink too much. We gaze out over the ocean to keep from crying as we relay the most recent updates from our children’s specialists. The place we hold in our hearts for one another opens just a little bigger when we admit that the word “chronic” in reference to our kids’ conditions has been the hardest of pills to swallow.

She is 9 and I am 8. We are back to back on her bike. I clutch the back of the banana seat and stretch my growing legs out on either side of me while she pumps the pedals to deliver me back home before dinner. “Hang on, I’ve got you,” she calls over her shoulder. And I don’t worry. Because I know she does.

The friendship among us is as sure as the tide that ebbs and flows around our sandy beach chairs. It is as old as we are. It is a living breathing thing. It needs no “remember when’s”. I know their faces as well as my own. The creases that frame their eyes are the same creases I have. They wouldn’t be so deep had it not been for our shared fits of laughter, which are undeniably at the root of their very existence.

I am 10 and she is 11. We are sledding across a frozen pond. The ice cracks beneath my sled, and I am suddenly–frighteningly–chest deep. She laughs with the others at the sight of me as I scramble out of the ice cold water. But she gasps and wraps her arms protectively around me as soon as she sees how scared I am.

My heart understands that the children of these friends occupy an immediate and precious place. I see them only once a year but I’ve loved them from the moment their Mothers shared the news of their pregnancies. Long before that even. Perhaps from the time we sat side by side, holding our dolls, pretending they were our babies. I don’t know their favorite colors, I’m not sure who prefers chicken to pizza; but their Mothers are a part of every meaningful childhood memory I have. When I look into their faces, I see the young girls we once were, and I am transported back to a lifetime ago…when our days were spent playing dress up and paper dolls, putting on talent shows for our big brothers, picking blackberries off the bushes in the woods behind our neighborhood. When the world was big. A summer was a lifetime. Our parents knew everything. And our stories were chapter upon chapter of empty pages waiting to be filled.

She is 17 and I am 16. She is tugging on my hair, weaving the locks into a french braid. “Do you love him?” I ask, peeking over my shoulder at her. As hard as she tries, she cannot deny the smile that plays at the corner of her lips. “I do,” she replies, as the smile lights up her face. I clap my hands together in delight. “Well, did you tell him?” I demand. “I did!” she exclaims, and we laugh and reach for each other’s hands, the french braid abandoned in our excitement.

Our kids are tentative around one another at first.

“Do you play baseball?”

“Join me in the water?”

“You like chipwiches? Me too.”

“Are those Zotz? Do they taste like pop rocks?”

They get slowly reacquainted. And by evening, their faces are a sea of smiles. Their laughter echoes across the surf. And they chase one another through the cool sand under a night sky that is lit by the most brilliant fireworks. Our visit draws near its end, and it’s no longer my child on my lap…it’s hers.

I am 24 and she is 25. She smiles brightly as my Dad walks me down the aisle in the church by our childhood homes. A few months later, my eyes are brimming with tears as her Dad ushers her down the aisle in the church by the ocean where we spent our summers.

The fireworks are over, and each of the 200 sparklers has burned out. Our goodbyes are hurried because it’s late, and the dreaded bedtime routine still awaits. This year I’m able to make my way up the dunes behind my family before the tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

“Wait!” I tiny voice calls out behind me, “Wait!”

I turn to see the littlest of the littles running towards me with her arms outstretched. She is blond and blue-eyed. Like a real life Cindy Lou Who.

We wrap our arms around each other in a heartfelt farewell. I kiss the top of her blond head and continue my climb up the dunes.

“Wait!” she yells once more. I turn to find her arms open again, so I lean down to lift her up. She lays her head on my shoulder and exclaims, “I love you!”

She must be Cindy Lou Who. Because my heart grows 3 sizes in her tiny embrace.

“I love you too, baby girl.”

I place her delicately in the sand, and she races back to her Mom, to her aunt, to her sister, to her cousins. She races back to a world that’s big, to a summer that lasts a lifetime, to parents who know everything, and to a story that is chapter upon chapter of empty pages waiting to be filled.

Before the invention of Minecraft–which, for the record, I still don’t understand,

Before running out to Target for poster board the night before a project is due,

Before I swore no child of mine would ever be medicated,

Before Little League games that went into extra innings but only on school nights,

Before piano lessons and all the complaining that accompanied his practicing,

Before he grew too big to carry,

Before I became selective about sharing the babysitter’s name for fear someone else might snatch her away,

Before the first visit from the tooth fairy,

Before the months of fretting over which school was right,

Before the wall needed repainting because those were permanent markers,

Before the first little lies he told, which were eventually followed by bigger ones,

Before time-outs on the step,

Before story time at the library,

Before swim lessons,

Before the panic of having lost him for two very long minutes in Kohl’s,

Before the discovery that Baby Einstein offered thirteen consecutive minutes of peace during which I could inhale dinner,

Before I could make everything better by pulling him onto my lap for a hug,

Before the torture that is sleep deprivation,

Before the exceedingly slow drive home from the hospital because we had a “Baby on board”,

Before I knew to trust my instincts because they’re actually pretty good,

Before I understood that this is harder than anything,

Before. Before. Before.

I held a baby.

Moments after he drew his first breath.

I had dreamed of him for as long as I could remember.

The love was there…fierce and primal and expected.

Even bigger than the love was the hope. So enormous and undeniably present that I could just about reach out and touch it. No dream was too big for this perfect little bundle who had his entire life before him.

Who will he be?

***

He’ll be as tall as his father. He’ll need braces. He’ll be exceedingly guarded, but never after 10PM. He’ll have a quiet confidence. He’ll have a good voice, but he won’t like to sing. He’ll be outstanding with numbers, but struggle with words. He’ll hate mornings. He’ll love hijinx. He’ll be resistant to change. He’ll be a brother again, and again, and again.

He’ll have someone whose love remains fierce and primal. And whose hope for him will always be big enough to reach out and touch.

Once upon a time, there was a girl. OK, a woman. She was almost 30, but she still thought of herself as a girl.

One day that girl received a card. A real card in a stamped envelope. A 30th birthday card from her college roommate. A card that encouraged her to make this a year of taking chances and pushing limits. And she put that card away in a drawer, but the girl took that message to heart.

Because she was struggling.

So immersed and in love with her two little boys that they had become her identity.

Lonely and missing her husband, who worked two jobs so she could be home with their kids.

Shaken by the news that her father had cancer.

So she bought her first pair of running shoes. Which, for her, was taking a very big chance. Because the girl was an athlete, but never a runner.

Those shoes were good to her. Together the girl and her shoes jogged through the neighborhood. They ran before dawn because the girl was aware of the extra weight she carried from having birthed two children. She preferred the cover of darkness to hide a body that she was ashamed of.

She didn’t find running fun. But the girl stuck with it.

She remembered the card and its message she’d taken to heart. She said to the shoes, “Today we are pushing limits and heading out of the neighborhood!” So they did. And it was hard. Leaving the neighborhood had seemed like an impossible goal, but she’d believed that she could do it, and she did.

She looked in the mirror after that run and saw the girl looking back at her…not just the Mom. And she sparkled just a little bit.

When she came home from her runs to find goldfish crackers ground into the carpet and permanent marker on the walls, she shrugged. The girl slipped off her running shoes. She embraced her babies and said, “It’s OK. Mommy’s here.” And it was OK. Because the running made little things like crumbs and stains seem like they weren’t such a big deal after all.

One day her brother joined her for a run. And that felt like a big deal. Because he had run marathons, and she had only just left the neighborhood. She wondered why he would want to run with her when he could run so much farther and faster on his own.

But it soon became clear. The laughter. The companionship. The consistency. The encouragement. The trust. The vulnerability. They shared it all. While the rest of the town lie sleeping in their beds, the girl and her brother cemented their friendship as running partners.

One day her brother encouraged the girl to register for a 10 mile race. That idea scared her, but she thought of the birthday card. This was her year for taking chances! And she liked that feeling of sparkling. She was feeling more and more like the girl and not just the Mom. And, it may sound crazy, but that made her a better Mom. A patient Mom. A happy Mom.

The girl and her brother trained all summer for that race. On race day, they decorated their shirts with the words, “Every step is for you, Dad.” And their father, whose body was fatigued from having the cancer burned out of it, looked humbly at them through blue eyes that shone bright with tears of pride.

The girl was very excited about the race. She’d bought a brand new pair of shorts for the occasion! Shorts that she’d never run in before.

One mile in, the girl realized her mistake. “These shorts are hurting my legs,” she told her brother. Two miles in, her legs began bleeding. Three miles in, the girl said, “Five is all I have today.” She walked off the course at the five mile point while her brother ran on to finish alone. When the girl saw the letters DNF next to her name after the race, she immediately vowed that there would be another race.

Then she tossed those stupid shorts into the trash where they belonged.

There would be another race. But there would be no brand new shorts.

Before another race, there was another baby. A third boy, and the happiest of her children.

His smile warmed the girl to her toes. But carrying that boy had been hard on the girl. She waited until he was six weeks old before she laced up her running shoes. So enormous were her boobs that she needed three bras…yes, three!…worn one on top of the other, to get through that run. And it hurt. And the girl cried as she ran. She cried for the pain. For deep in her uterus it hurt. She cried for how much fitness she’d lost through that pregnancy. She cried for the pounds, all sixty of them, that she’d gained. She cried for the effort it took to run with those pounds on a frame not designed to carry so much weight. She cried because, as much as she tried to deny it, the girl was suffering from postpartum depression. She felt dull and hopeless…like she would never sparkle again.

To keep the walls from closing in on her, the girl put her faith in those shoes and continued to run. She ran through the pain. She ran through the tears. She believed if she kept running, maybe she wouldn’t feel so burdened. The girl was so many things to so many people. All she wanted was to feel just a touch lighter. “Really, is that so much to ask?” the girl wondered.

When the third boy was five months old, the girl’s brother said, “I’m going to run that 10 mile race again.” Her brother-in-law said, “I’m going to join you.” And the girl remembered the card that still sat in a drawer. It had been several years since she’d first opened that card, but its message had remained her companion. She felt tired, heavy, and overwhelmed. Not at all ready to push her limits. The girl said, “I don’t think I’m ready, but I’d like to give it a try.”

She’d graduated from running with three bras to running with only two bras. The girl strapped on those bras and slipped into the most comfortable shorts she owned, old ones that she’d run in many times before, and she joined her brother and brother-in-law at the start. They ran slowly. And they stuck together. After five miles, her brother turned to the girl and said, “Five is as far as I go today.” And it was he who walked off the course that race. The girl looked at her brother-in-law, whom she loved. Even without the running, theirs was such an easy friendship. “I’m going for it. Are you coming?” he asked. And the girl felt OK. So she continued to run.

The brother-in-law stayed with the girl for three more miles. Three very slow and painful miles. He regaled her with stories to keep her spirits up. But the girl was falling apart and holding him back. So she thanked him for getting her this far and urged him to run his race. And off he went.

By then it was only the girl and her shoes. The girl said to the shoes, “No matter what, we are not walking!” And those shoes were good to the girl. Which was no easy feat. Because the girl and her shoes were running on sand! The girl wanted to quit, but the shoes propelled her forward. Everything hurt, inside and out. So the girl thought of things that made her heart sing…the ocean beside her, the angelic faces of her children while they slept, how protected she felt in the arms of her husband, the outside shower she would take after the race, and the cold beer she would enjoy before bed.

And the girl found the resolve to cross that finish line. Accompanied only by her running shoes. Who hadn’t stopped to walk even once.

The girl bid the ocean good night. She planted soft kisses on her children’s heads as they slept. She savored the heat of the shower on her aching muscles. She found she was too exhausted for that beer after all. She crawled into the arms of her husband with a smile on her face. The girl had felt the shift. The weight was lifting. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she began to sparkle again.

Years went by, and would you believe that girl went and had another baby?

Yep…a boy! Her fourth.

And when the girl was 39, she found herself struggling again. “I think it’s time,” the girl thought, “to take another chance.” And the girl and her running shoes landed in a city far from home on a relay team with a group of runners. Runners who were different from the girl, yet mostly the same. All girls. Girls who’d known joy, pain, fear, frustration, and the aching exhaustion of sleepless nights. They were kindred spirits. A resilient group. For they were all Moms. Special Moms. The kind of Moms who celebrate and support one another. The girl and her teammates got very fancy for the occasion and donned pink tutus. The girl couldn’t forget about her beloved shoes, which’d always been so good to her, so she tied glow rings to their laces to match her tutu. And the girl delighted in every minute of their adventure.

DC or Bust

It was on this team that the girl befriended a woman…a Pixie of sorts. The Pixie was the tiniest woman the girl had ever met. But her size didn’t fool the girl. For as small as her frame was, the girl recognized that the Pixie had a spirit as tall as the biggest evergreen and a heart as warm as the sunniest August day. Color, hope, quirkiness, kindness…the Pixie was a rare and beautiful collage of them all. As the sun set on the first day they’d spent together, the girl sat on the grass and watched as the Pixie strung lights through her tutu. The girl smiled as she thought, “Now her skirt glows as bright as her spirit.”

The Pixie sat down and looked earnestly at the girl. “Sweet girl, I see your struggle,” the Pixie said,”and the struggle is in your head. I promise, if you lead with your heart, it will never steer you wrong.” And the girl felt released. Like all at once like she might laugh and cry. And the Pixie’s advice has since become a mantra for the girl.

When she came home from that race to find dishes in the sink and laundry that needed folding, she shrugged. The girl slipped off her running shoes. She embraced her children and said, “It’s OK. Mom’s here.” And it was OK. Because the running made little things like dishes and laundry seem like they weren’t such a big deal after all.

Nearly ten years have passed since the girl opened that card. A card that encouraged her to push limits. A card that prompted her to take chances. A card that led her to take a chance on her very first pair of running shoes.

In that time, the girl has run alongside women who have imprinted themselves on the fabric of her heart. From soul stirring laughter to confidences that will never be broken, the girl and these women share moments that will endear them forever.

The girl, this lucky girl, has known the unparalleled thrill of running alongside her son. And she was nearly blinded by how brightly he shines.

The girl has experienced more life in those shoes than she’d ever imagined possible. She’s nurtured her spirit. She’s abandoned judgment. She’s found love for herself when she thought she’d given it all away. She’s forgiven herself for the times she’s been too weak to muster strength. The girl celebrates her body, worn and weathered from growing and sustaining life, for the beautiful and unique gift that it is.

She is inspired by the people she’s met on her journey.

She feels grateful for all she’s accomplished with her feet in these treasured shoes.

For in these shoes, the girl slayed her dragons.

***

There is a girl. OK a woman. She is almost 40, but she still thinks of herself as a girl.

She’s not afraid to take chances.

She’s likely to push limits.

More often than not, she leads with her heart.

The girl is a runner.

Some days she sparkles.

And everyone deserves a chance to sparkle, don’t they?

The girl is not upset that she’ll soon be 40.

Maybe, just maybe, she’ll receive a card. A real card in a stamped envelope. A 40th birthday card from her college roommate.

The girl can’t wait to read what it says.

Disclaimer: The girl does not endorse running in the same pair of shoes for thousands of miles. For the sake of the story, and out of respect for her first pair of running shoes, she didn’t introduce a new pair in this essay. In real life, she replaces her running shoes every 400 miles. Or whenever she can afford it. Because feeding four boys gets expensive.

My friend, a mother herself, smiled knowingly as she presented the journal she’d fashioned from an old marble copybook. It bumped my pregnant belly as she handed it to me. Everything bumped my belly in my ninth month of pregnancy.

She turned out to be right. I spent hours hunched over that journal during my oldest son’s first year of life. When I flip through its pages now, it’s a testimonial both of his growth and of my transition–emotional and anxious–to mother. Is he OK? Am I OK? Am I doing any of this right?

When my second son was born, the journal was store bought and smaller in scale. The entries were just as fraught with emotion. They hinted at a growing maternal confidence. But they were documented much less frequently. He seems OK. Are we OK? Am I doing more right than wrong?

In the haze after my third son arrived, I scribbled down the details, “9lbs 2 oz, 23 ½ inches,” ripped the note off its pad and slapped it on top of his brothers’ journals on my nightstand. That’s the closest I came to a journal entry with him.

And, no. My fourth son didn’t even get the impersonal stats on a loose-leaf sheet.

Over time, I have accumulated a stack of sticky notes. Here is what they say:

“Paw-crits = paw-prints“

“Fun-quints = footprints”

“Ge-go = here you go”

“What o’clock is it = what time is it”

“Ya got crumbs = Do you need to shave”

“Leepeet = syrup”

“Lasterday = yesterday or any day before today”

All phrases coined by my kids at different ages. Journal-worthy. Indelible.

Individually, each captures a moment in time.

Together, it feels as though they are all that is left of my favorite years with my babies.

They belong in a journal.

Soon I will have one.

This Is Childhood

This is Childhood contains heartfelt essays about every year of the first decade of childhood. It provides writing prompts for those times when the words need some coaxing.

I finally took the time to write about my sweet third born. He was the inspiration for the book’s Age Six. I’m so proud to be a part of this collection and have my words sandwiched among those of so many beautiful writers.

Imagine a Mom. A Mom with a deep crease in her forehead and saggy boobs.

You know.

A Regular Mom.

Imagine that Regular Mom has a husband and four sons. The poor girl is substantially outnumbered. No wonder that crease is so deep. So many boys. So little meaningful conversation. That Regular Mom with the deep crease and the saggy boobs longs to get the lowdown from her boys after school every day. How was that brownie I put in your lunch? Who did you sit with? Were your friends kind to you? Did you laugh today? What made you laugh?

But pfffft. Those boys of hers aren’t wired for chit chat. They come home from school, dump their bags precariously in the entryway where Regular Mom will trip on them, load their pockets with cheeseballs and head straight for the trampoline to beat the piss out of one another. So Regular Mom…that saint of a woman…heads into the kitchen to prepare seventeen different dishes that will be consumed by five males in the span of three minutes. She turns on Howard Stern–at least he’ll talk to her–and hopes that tonight’s dinner conversation does not include any sound, smell, or mention of flatulence. Just this once.

Regular Mom has a tough pill to swallow every March. Her kids have THE LONGEST SPRING BREAK EVER. Eleven days off from school.

In a row.

And that includes the weekends because oh yes they do so fucking count.

Many months ago, she researched what it would cost to fly that sizable family out to Arizona to visit her sister for a portion of that eleven day nut punch. A quick Google search showed that it costs too many American dollars to put six winter-weary butts on a plane headed West in the month of March.

Regular Mom’s parents don’t like shoveling snow, so they spend the cold winter months in Florida. Regular Mom did a quick Google search on the price of flights to Florida, and it turns out it costs too many American dollars to fly six people there in March too.

“Son of a motherless goat,” she said, “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before I do another eleven day staycation with crowd.”

Her offspring wouldn’t know a dinner conversation that didn’t include the word “fart” if it came up and bit them on their gassy little asses, but Regular Mom still wanted to connect with each and every one of her sons.

So she Googled the often-talked-about-but-never-before-visited Great Wolf Lodge.

Indoor Water Park Extravaganza

Here is what she learned.

It costs $500 to:

frolic about in an indoor water park in ankle deep water that is arguably 50% urine from the bladders of other people’s kids,

spend the night in a smaller bed than she’s used to in one room that will sleep her entire family,

wrestle on a bathing suit unexpectedly three months earlier than she usually dreads doing, and

leave exhausted with the high likelihood of plantar warts in her near future.

So she said to her husband, “WHAT KIND OF A RACKET IS THIS?”

But Regular Mom’s husband said, “Think of our third son. That boy loves being in the water more than anything. Picture the look of excitement on his face when we tell him we’re going. It’s well worth the price of admission merely to see the happiness in his eyes.”

And Regular Mom thought her husband made a good point. Boy #3 is a patient soul with an infectious smile and a pure heart. So she confirmed the overnight arrangements with the vision of her elated third born son’s face in her mind’s eye. And a twitch in her actual eye from the exorbitant price of admission.

Regular Mom bought several pairs of new goggles on the sly. She crept up the stairs into the frigid, dark attic–a space not fit for a full grown adult which forces her to navigate all the clothing bins on her knees–to locate and launder the bathing suits. She packed the overnight bags surreptitiously. So great was her anticipation of her third son’s excitement, that she smiled and chuckled aloud as she prepared for their surprise overnight trip.

And when the time came to share the news with their four sons of the trip to the often-talked-about-but-never-before-visited Great Wolf Lodge, Regular Mom and her husband assembled the children at the table.

“Please guess where we are taking you.”

“Lolly and Poppy’s New Jersey beach house.”

“No.”

“Lolly and Poppy’s Florida beach house.”

“No.”

“Arizona.”

“No.”

“Why not Arizona? I want to go to Arizona. You said we would go to Arizona one day.”

“Stop complaining. Keep guessing.”

“The Oreland Swim Club.”

“No, but close.”

“I don’t have any more guesses.

…This is a stupid game.

…Can’t you just tell us already?

…Can I watch a show?”

“OK, boys, Dad and I are taking you to…”

Regular Mom looked at her husband, and he reached out and squeezed her hand. They smiled because a moment like this–when you make an announcement that elicits pure joy in the people you love so fiercely and completely–this is what makes all of the sleepless nights and the backtalk and the bad pre-teen Disney shows and the vomiting on fresh sheets at 2AM worth it. This is the moment.

“We are taking you to…

…GREAT! WOLF! LODGE!!!!”

Regular Mom craned her neck around her youngest son and looked expectantly at her third son, the sweetheart of the bunch, the boy whose smile warms her all the way to her toes.

“What?” he stammered, “WHAT?!”

“Yes!” Regular Mom nodded and clapped. “Great Wolf Lodge! The indoor water park! What do you think?!”

And her third son yelled, “I’M NOT GOING IN THE WATER! AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!” And then he covered his crestfallen face with his hands, laid his head on the table, and proceeded to cry. Hysterically.

Not the happy tears.

Regular Mom looked at her husband, and he looked back at her. And there was no need to speak. Because they were both thinking the same thing.

This, unfortunately, is what parenting is about.

Parenting is thinking you’ve got it so perfectly right…only to discover you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Parenting is the illusion of a whole lotta YES…and the reality of OH, HELL NO.

Not just one NO.

A series of NO’s.

NO’s that get progressively louder and borderline violent.

Welcome to parenthood! Jump in, the water’s great! We’re swimming in somebody else’s pee, but honestly. It couldn’t be better. Embrace the unpredictability!

They dried the tears of their third born son, hurried the children into the car just as the snow began falling, and drove North towards their destination. What should have been a ninety minute drive became ninety minute drive + sixty additional tense minutes. Because four kids.

They checked into the hotel. Donned their bathing suits. Scarfed down Uncrustables. Distributed goggles. And down to the water park the six of them schlepped.

When they were finally together as a family in the pool–before the lifeguard whistled at the oldest son for pulling the second born under water, and before the other lifeguard whistled at the youngest for taking a running leap into the pool and cannon-balling his tiny muscular frame onto the heads and necks of unsuspecting strangers, and before Regular Mom threatened her husband that if he dared to take one more picture she would rip that expensive lens off his camera and send it down the party slide in an oversized raft–Regular Mom and her husband shared a smile. They were surrounded by their children…no one crying, no one in trouble, no one demanding a snack, no one having to poop…and life was good.

Regular Mom stood contentedly in four feet of disturbingly warm water, waiting for her youngest son to launch himself into her arms, when she felt a tap on her leg underwater. She turned to find her third son breaking the surface of the pool.

“Hi, Mom,” he smiled.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she smiled back. Her smile grew bigger as she noticed his goggles weren’t properly suctioned. His eyes were swimming in little pools of water behind those goggles.

“Sorry I was in a bad mood about coming to Great Wolf Lodge, Mom,” he said quietly.

“That’s OK, buddy.”

“I thought we were going to the Lego Store, Mom. I really just wanted to go to the Lego Store. But this is fun.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” What a precious boy.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?”

“Absolutely, buddy.”

He looked over both his shoulders, swam up almost on top of her and asked, “Mom, would you sacrifice yourself for me?”

What’s that now?

Regular Mom chewed on the inside of her mouth to avoid smiling, “Without hesitation.”

“Does that mean yes or no?”

“That means yes. And twice on Sunday’s,” she nodded, as she kissed his wet forehead.

“Twice on Sunday’s? What is that, Mom?”

“It means yes. I would sacrifice myself for you,” it took all her effort to keep a straight face. Especially with the chlorine rolling directly into her eyes.

He nodded his head. Looked over his shoulders once again. Emptied his goggles, dove under water, and swam off without so much as a glance back at Regular Mom.

Sacrifice myself? She wondered what he could possibly be talking about when her reverie was broken by her youngest son’s wet, flying body. Which struck her square on the side of the head.

“You were supposed to catch me!” he spat the words at her. Along with some pool water for good measure.

Once she regained her faculties and was no longer seeing two, three, and four of her children…oh, wait, that’s how many kids she actually has…she swam over to her husband.

“I don’t know what #3 has planned, but he just swam up to me like the Loch Ness fucking Monster and asked me if I would sacrifice myself for him.”

Her husband raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, “Really?” he asked. “That’s interesting. Because he asked me earlier if I know anyone who had fallen into a ravine and survived.”

Hang on, what?

“Let’s keep our eye on that kid,” Regular Mom said.

“And let’s not make plans to visit the Grand Canyon anytime soon.”

“Good call,” Regular Mom agreed.

Regular Mom, her husband, and sons enjoyed hours at the indoor water park. They stayed until well after their two younger sons’ bedtimes. They stayed until Regular Mom could feel the sting of chlorine on her eyeballs when she wasn’t even in the pool. She worried maybe the fine people of Great Wolf Lodge were vaporizing the chlorine and pumping it into the air supply to compensate for all of the peeing in the pools, and that’s when she gave her family the high sign. They trudged up the four flights of stairs to their room, and decided on sleeping arrangements.

The younger two, who were exhausted, would share the pullout sofa bed since it sat on the opposite side of a partitioned wall and offered a modicum of privacy and quiet.

The oldest boy announced, “I’m not sleeping with my other brother,” and both Regular Mom and her husband groaned.

Because that meant one of them had to share a bed with that action.

Non-stop kicking. Sideways sleeping. Talking in his sleep. Walking in his sleep. Night terrors. Hogging of covers. That’s what it’s like to share a bed with their second born son. He is a beacon of light during the day. And the angel of death in slumber.

“Fine. I’ll sleep with him,” Regular Mom’s husband grumbled. The light went out in his eyes as the gravity of the night ahead of him sunk in.

It had been a long time since Regular Mom had slept in the same bed with her oldest son. When he flopped on the bed as far away from her as possible without rolling onto the floor, she was reminded of how much he’d grown and how twelve year old boys pretty much altogether suck.

She smiled at him and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to spoon with you.”

He rolled his eyes, and replied, “As usual I don’t know what you’re talking about, but don’t touch me, old lady,” and then he flipped his head so she wouldn’t breathe on his face.

Regular Mom doesn’t pray very often. But, lying in an overpriced room with her family, sharing an undersized bed with her oldest son got her thinking. These are the people I love most in the world. They are my reason. Every day.

And Regular Mom was overcome with emotion.

Mostly that emotion was dread.

She lay next to her firstborn son–whose voice is deeper, whose shoulders are broader, whose feet are as big as his grandfather’s, whose upper lip is covered in peach fuzz, whose hormones are raging–and Regular Mom prayed.

“God on high, Hear my prayer. In my need, you have always been there. He is young. He’s afraid. Let him rest. Heaven blessed.”

It was just like Jean Val jean singing over Marius in Les Miserables.

Except it was nothing like that.

Because, it was night two of her period.

The night her uterus bleeds with the vengeance of five uteruses.

Uteri?

So her prayer went more like this:

Dear Patron Saint of Heavy Periods,

Please hear and answer my prayer. My son is 12 years old. It’s an uncomfortable age. That was a particularly awkward year for me. I remember flashes of sequins and a favorite pair of fluorescent striped corduroys. Please, PLEASE do not let me bleed all over these white sheets. I have nowhere to hide. If I leak, if my oldest child wakes in a pool of his mother’s uterine lining, he will be scarred for life. More scarred than I was by that awful haircut I had at 12 years old. And I’m still carrying that around.

So, um, Amen?

Regular Mom only slept about 45 minutes total that night, so scared was she that she would bleed all over the shared bed and damage her son irrevocably.

So she lay awake all night long.

And early the next morning, when she shimmied her way out of bed, she smiled. It had been a perfect, leak-free, sleepless night. Her 12 year old son’s delicate psyche would remain intact. At least until the next family vacation.

Regular Mom’s husband had already left the reservation to take pictures get her a Dunkin Donuts coffee.

Is that the sun coming up? Nice shot. Say, why’s my coffee so cold?

She made mental notes about the day ahead. There was packing to do and breakfast to make and hours more fun to be had. But for now, she would let her boys sleep.

Regular Mom crept over to peek around the partition at her two younger sons, who were just stirring.

“Mom, can you lay with us?” whispered the third son.

They made space for her between them, and she slipped under the sheets and wrapped her arms around her third and fourth babies.

“Mom, what o’clock is it?” asked the youngest.

“It’s still dark outside,” she whispered. “That means it’s the perfect o’clock for you to lay with Mommy.”

“Mom, are we gonna come here again? To Great Wolf Lodge?” asked her third son.

Regular Mom replied, “Well, we’re going to have fun at the waterpark again today. But I don’t know if we’ll come back after that. For our family, I think visiting Great Wolf Lodge once is probably enough.”

The two boys snuggled up against her, she kissed the tops of their heads and whispered, “This is the best part of my day.”

Her third son reached his arms around her neck and gave her an unexpected hug. He gazed up at her with that face that melts her heart and said, “Mom, does that mean we can go to the Lego Store tomorrow? Because I really only wanted to go to the Lego Store this spring break.”

***

And that, my friends, is what spring break looks like in the life of a Regular Mom.